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Upstairs, Oliver is asleep with a silver bar through his nipple. Down here, I correct the oversight.

One doll remains on the shelf. Three is best.

I measure the wire once more.

Snip.

CHAPTER 15

Oliver

The ceiling is green.

I look at it for a while.

There’s a headache behind my eyes, the slow heavy kind that gets worse when I turn my head. My mouth tastes stale. One hand hurts.

I close my eyes again.

Coffee. The memory comes back without order. A paper cup in my hand. Students lingering after the reading. A woman asking me about regret and remorse when I wanted to go home. Heather.

I open my eyes.

The parking lot comes next. Her arm around my waist. My bag over her shoulder. The passenger door open behind me. My phone in my hand and then in hers. I remember the pavement. Her telling me that was my fault.

After that there are pieces. A seat belt across my chest. Streetlights passing the window. Heather’s hand in my hair.

Oliver.

I sit up.

The room moves enough that I stop there and wait for it to settle.

Nothing happens outside the door.

I listen.

There’s a low mechanical hum somewhere in the house. Heat, probably. No voices. No footsteps. No television. If Heather is nearby, she isn’t moving around where I can hear her.

I look down at myself. I’m not wearing my clothes.

Someone’s put me in a pair of dark green sleep pants. Nothing else. I pull the waistband away from my skin and look down, then let it go.

For a moment I stare at the bar through my left nipple. So she knows about that now. That bothers me more than being undressed.

I check my arms, chest, legs, then turn my hands over. There’s a clean bandage across my left palm. My watch is gone. So are my wallet, keys and phone. My glasses are sitting neatly on the nightstand. I put them on.

I sit on the edge of the bed until I’m confident my legs will hold me. The headache remains, but the drugged heaviness from the parking lot is mostly gone. When I stand, I keep one hand on the mattress for the first few seconds.

The door is six steps away. I try the handle. Locked. I expected that. I turn it again slowly and feel for any movement in the latch, then lean my weight against the door. Solid. I look at the frame and hinges before crouching to inspect the lock itself. No keyhole on this side.

I stand and listen with my ear against the wood. Still nothing.

There’s a window on the opposite wall. I cross to it and pull the curtain aside. Someone’s removed the glass. A wooden shutter fills the opening, painted dark green and fastened from the other side. A thin seam of daylight outlines it, just enough to prove the world is still there.

I press my palm against the center. Something solid reinforces the wood. I test the edges. No latch. No exposed hinges. Nothing wide enough to wedge my fingers beneath. This wasn’t designed to keep the weather out.

I let the curtain fall back into place.